THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J.D. Salinger He wrote this terrific book of .. The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They. PDF Drive is your search engine for PDF files. THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J D Salinger () Salinger's last published work, IN THIS BOOK. □ Deal. CATCHER ON RYE ANDREW HUNTER Catcher on Rye by Andrew Hunter TO MY He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you .
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Bloom'sGUIDES J.D. Salinger'sThe Catcher in the Rye CURRENTLY AVAILABLE The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn All th. The protagonist of J. D. Salinger'sThe Catcher in the Rye (), Holden Caulfield, is When we read The Catcher in the Rye keeping in mind Freud' sidea. but Catcher in the Rye is one of my least favorite novels (along with Lord of the You can download the catcher in the rye pdf book on STUVERA, the site is a.
But if you thought about him just enough and not too much, you could figure it out that he wasn't doing too bad for himself. For instance, one Sunday when some other guys and I were over there for hot chocolate, he showed us this old beat-up Navajo blanket that he and Mrs. Spencer'd bought off some Indian in Yellowstone Park.
You could tell old Spencer'd got a big bang out of downloading it. That's what I mean. You take somebody old as hell, like old Spencer, and they can get a big bang out of downloading a blanket. His door was open, but I sort of knocked on it anyway , just to be polite and all.
I could see where he was sitting. He was sitting in a big leather chair, all wrapped up in that blanket I just told you about. He looked over at me when I knocked. Come in, boy.
It got on your nerves sometimes. The minute I went in, I was sort of sorry I'd come. He was reading the Atlantic Monthly, and there were pills and medicine all over the place, and everything smelled like Vicks Nose Drops. It was pretty depressing. I'm not too crazy about sick people, anyway. What made it even more depressing, old Spencer had on this very sad, ratty old bathrobe that he was probably born in or something.
I don't much like to see old guys in their pajamas and bathrobes anyway. Their bumpy old chests are always showing. And their legs. Old guys' legs, at beaches and places, always look so white and unhairy. Thanks a lot. I'd have come over to say good-by anyway.
He meant the bed. I sat down on it. That knocked him out. He started chuckling like a madman.
The Catcher In The Rye
Then he finally straightened himself out and said, "Why aren't you down at the game? I thought this was the day of the big game. I was. Only, I just got back from New York with the fencing team," I said.
Boy, his bed was like a rock. He started getting serious as hell. I knew he would. I guess I am. You never saw anybody nod as much in your life as old Spencer did. You never knew if he was nodding a lot because he was thinking and all, or just because he was a nice old guy that didn't know his ass from his elbow. Thurmer say to you, boy? I understand you had quite a little chat. We really did.
The Catcher In The Rye Summary
I was in his office for around two hours, I guess. And how you should play it according to the rules. He was pretty nice about it. I mean he didn't hit the ceiling or anything. He just kept talking about Life being a game and all. You know. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules. I know it is. I know it. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it's a game, all right— I'll admit that.
But if you get on the other side, where there aren't any hot-shots, then what's a game about it? No game. Thurmer written to your parents yet? This is about the fourth school I've gone to. I shake my head quite a lot. I also say "Boy! Partly because I have a lousy vocabulary and partly because I act quite young for my age sometimes. I was sixteen then, and I'm seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I'm about thirteen. It's really ironical, because I'm six foot two and a half and I have gray hair.
I really do. The one side of my head— the right side— is full of millions of gray hairs. I've had them ever since I was a kid.
And yet I still act sometimes like I was only about twelve. Everybody says that, especially my father. It's partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true. I don't give a damn, except that I get bored sometimes when people tell me to act my age. Sometimes I act a lot older than I am— I really do -but people never notice it. People never notice anything. Old Spencer started nodding again. He also started picking his nose.
He made out like he was only pinching it, but he was really getting the old thumb right in there. I guess he thought it was all right to do because it was only me that was in the room.
I didn't care, except that it's pretty disgusting to watch somebody pick their nose. Then he said, "I had the privilege of meeting your mother and dad when they had their little chat with Dr. Thurmer some weeks ago. They're grand people. They're very nice. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony baloney.
I could puke every time I hear it. Then all of a sudden old Spencer looked like he had something very good, something sharp as a tack, to say to me. He sat up more in his chair and sort of moved around. It was a false alarm, though. All he did was lift the Atlantic Monthly off his lap and try to chuck it on the bed, next to me. He missed. It was only about two inches away, but he missed anyway.
I got up and picked it up and put it down on the bed. All of a sudden then, I wanted to get the hell out of the room. I could feel a terrific lecture coming on. I didn't mind the idea so much, but I didn't feel like being lectured to and smell Vicks Nose Drops and look at old Spencer in his pajamas and bathrobe all at the same time. I really didn't. It started, all right. He said it pretty tough, too, for him.
And how many are you failing in? It was the hardest bed I ever sat on. I mean I didn't have to do any work in English at all hardly, except write compositions once in a while. He hardly ever listened to you when you said something. Boy, I know it. You couldn't help it. That's something that drives me crazy.
When people say something twice that way, after you admit it the first time. Then he said it three times. I doubt very much if you opened your textbook even once the whole term. Did you? Tell the truth, boy. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was mad about history. On top of the pile. Bring it here, please. Then I sat down on his cement bed again. Boy, you can't imagine how sorry I was getting that I'd stopped by to say good-by to him.
He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something. Would you care to hear what you had to say? He read it anyway, though.
You can't stop a teacher when they want to do something.
They just do it. The Egyptians were an ancient race of Caucasians residing in one of the northern sections of Africa. The latter as we all know is the largest continent in the Eastern Hemisphere. I had to sit there and listen to that crap. It certainly was a dirty trick. The Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today for various reasons.
Modern science would still like to know what the secret ingredients were that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people so that their faces would not rot for innumerable centuries. This interesting riddle is still quitea challenge to modern science in the twentieth century.
He stopped reading and put my paper down. I was beginning to sort of hate him. You wouldn't think such an old guy would be so sarcastic and all. I said it very fast because I wanted to stop him before he started reading that out loud. But you couldn't stop him. He was hot as a firecracker. That is all I know about the Egyptians. I can't seem to get very interested in themalthough your lectures are very interesting.
It is all rightwith me if you flunk me though as I am flunking everything else except English anyway. He put my goddam paper down then and looked at me like he'd just beaten hell out of me in ping-pong or something. I don't think I'll ever forgive him for reading me that crap out loud. I wouldn't've read it out loud to him if he'd written it— I really wouldn't. In the first place, I'd only written that damn note so that he wouldn't feel too bad about flunking me.
I certainly don't," I said.
The Catcher in the Rye is a novel by
I wished to hell he'd stop calling me "boy" all the time. He tried chucking my exam paper on the bed when he was through with it. Only, he missed again, naturally. I had to get up again and pick it up and put it on top of the Atlantic Monthly.
It's boring to do that every two minutes. So I shot the bull for a while. I told him I was a real moron, and all that stuff. I told him how I would've done exactly the same thing if I'd been in his place, and how most people didn't appreciate how tough it is being a teacher. That kind of stuff. The old bull. The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of something else while I shot the bull.
I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go. I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away. I'm lucky, though.
I mean I could shoot the old bull to old Spencer and think about those ducks at the same time. It's funny. You don't have to think too hard when you talk to a teacher.
All of a sudden, though, he interrupted me while I was shooting the bull. He was always interrupting you. I'd be very interested to know. Very interested. I sort of wished he'd cover up his bumpy chest. It wasn't such a beautiful view. I just quit, sort of. Oh, well it's a long story, sir. I mean it's pretty complicated.
He wouldn't have understood it anyway. It wasn't up his alley at all. One of the biggest reasons I left Elkton Hills was because I was surrounded by phonies. That's all. They were coming in the goddam window. For instance, they had this headmaster, Mr. Haas, that was the phoniest bastard I ever met in my life.
Ten times worse than old Thurmer. On Sundays, for instance, old Haas went around shaking hands with everybody's parents when they drove up to school. He'd be charming as hell and all. Except if some boy had little old funny-looking parents. You should've seen the way he did with my roommate's parents. I mean if a boy's mother was sort of fat or corny-looking or something, and if somebody's father was one of those guys that wear those suits with very big shoulders and corny black-and-white shoes, then old Hans would just shake hands with them and give them a phony baloney smile and then he'd go talk, for maybe a half an hour, with somebody else's parents.
I can't stand that stuff. It drives me crazy. It makes me so depressed I go crazy. I hated that goddam Elkton Hills. Old Spencer asked me something then, but I didn't hear him. I was thinking about old Haas. Not yet, anyway. I guess it hasn't really hit me yet.
It takes things a while to hit me. All I'm doing right now is thinking about going home Wednesday. I'm a moron. Sure, I do. Not too much, I guess. You will when it's too late.
It made me sound dead or something. It was very depressing. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help you, if I can. You could see that. But it was just that we were too much on opposite sides ot the pole, that's all. No kidding. I appreciate it.
Boy, I couldn't' ve sat there another ten minutes to save my life. I have quite a bit of equipment at the gym I have to get to take home with me. I felt sorry as hell for him, all of a sudden. But I just couldn't hang around there any longer, the way we were on opposite sides of the pole, and the way he kept missing the bed whenever he chucked something at it, and his sad old bathrobe with his chest showing, and that grippy smell of Vicks Nose Drops all over the place.
Don't worry about me," I said. I'll be all right. I'm just going through a phase right now. Everybody goes through phases and all, don't they? I don't know. Sure, they do," I said.
Please don't worry about me. Spencer would be- -" "I would, I really would, but the thing is, I have to get going. I have to go right to the gym. Thanks, though. Thanks a lot, sir. And all that crap. It made me feel sad as hell, though. Take care of your grippe, now. I'm pretty sure he yelled "Good luck! I'd never yell "Good luck! It sounds terrible, when you think about it. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to download a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera.
It's terrible. So when I told old Spencer I had to go to the gym and get my equipment and stuff, that was a sheer lie.
I don't even keep my goddam equipment in the gym. It was only for juniors and seniors. I was a junior. My roommate was a senior. It was named after this guy Ossenburger that went to Pencey. He made a pot of dough in the undertaking business after he got out of Pencey. What he did, he started these undertaking parlors all over the country that you could get members of your family buried for about five bucks apiece. You should see old Ossenburger. He probably just shoves them in a sack and dumps them in the river.
Anyway, he gave Pencey a pile of dough, and they named our wing alter him. The first football game of the year, he came up to school in this big goddam Cadillac, and we all had to stand up in the grandstand and give him a locomotive— that's a cheer. Then, the next morning, in chapel, be made a speech that lasted about ten hours.
He started off with about fifty corny jokes, just to show us what a regular guy he was. Then he started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God-talk to Him and all— wherever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving his car.
That killed me. I just see the big phony baloney bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs. The only good part of his speech was right in the middle of it. He was telling us all about what a swell guy he was, what a hot-shot and all, then all of a sudden this guy sitting in the row in front of me, Edgar Marsalla, laid this terrific fart.
It was a very crude thing to do, in chapel and all, but it was also quite amusing. Old Marsalla.
He damn near blew the roof off. Hardly anybody laughed out loud, and old Ossenburger made out like he didn't even hear it, but old Thurmer, the headmaster, was sitting right next to him on the rostrum and all, and you could tell he heard it.
Boy, was he sore. He didn't say anything then, but the next night he made us have compulsory study hall in the academic building and he came up and made a speech. He said that the boy that had created the disturbance in chapel wasn't fit to go to Pencey. We tried to get old Marsalla to rip off another one, right while old Thurmer was making his speech, but be wasn't in the right mood.
Anyway, that's where I lived at Pencey. Old Ossenburger Memorial Wing, in the new dorms. It was pretty nice to get back to my room, after I left old Spencer, because everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our room, for a change. It felt sort of cosy. I took off my coat and my tie and unbuttoned my shirt collar; and then I put on this hat that I'd bought in New York that morning.
It was this red hunting hat, with one of those very, very long peaks. I saw it in the window of this sports store when we got out of the subway, just after I noticed I'd lost all the goddam foils. It only cost me a buck. The way I wore it, I swung the old peak way around to the back— very corny, I'll admit, but I liked it that way.
I looked good in it that way. Then I got this book I was reading and sat down in my chair. There were two chairs in every room. I had one and my roommate, Ward Stradlater, had one. The arms were in sad shape, because everybody was always sitting on them, but they were pretty comfortable chairs.
The book I was reading was this book I took out of the library by mistake. They gave me the wrong book, and I didn't notice it till I got back to my room. They gave me Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen. I thought it was going to stink, but it didn't. It was a very good book. I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot. My favorite author is my brother D. My brother gave me a book by Ring Lardner for my birthday, just before I went to Pencey.
It had these very funny, crazy plays in it, and then it had this one story about a traffic cop that falls in love with this very cute girl that's always speeding. Only, he's married, the cop, so be can't marry her or anything.
Then this girl gets killed, because she's always speeding. That story just about killed me. What I like best is a book that's at least funny once in a while.
I read a lot of classical books, like The Return of the Native and all, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and mysteries and all, but they don't knock me out too much.
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D. I read it last summer. It's a pretty good book and all, but I wouldn't want to call Somerset Maugham up.
I don't know, He just isn't the kind of guy I'd want to call up, that's all. I'd rather call old Thomas Hardy up. I like that Eustacia Vye. Anyway, I put on my new hat and sat down and started reading that book Out of Africa.
I'd read it already, but I wanted to read certain parts over again. I'd only read about three pages, though, when I heard somebody coming through the shower curtains. Even without looking up, I knew right away who it was.
It was Robert Ackley, this guy that roomed right next to me. There was a shower right between every two rooms in our wing, and about eighty-five times a day old Ackley barged in on me. He was probably the only guy in the whole dorm, besides me, that wasn't down at the game. He hardly ever went anywhere.
He was a very peculiar guy. He was a senior, and he'd been at Pencey the whole four years and all, but nobody ever called him anything except "Ackley. The whole time he roomed next to me, I never even once saw him brush his teeth. They always looked mossy and awful, and he damn near made you sick if you saw him in the dining room with his mouth full of mashed potatoes and peas or something.
Besides that, he had a lot of pimples. Not just on his forehead or his chin, like most guys, but all over his whole face. And not only that, he had a terrible personality. He was also sort of a nasty guy. I wasn't too crazy about him, to tell you the truth.
I could feel him standing on the shower ledge, right behind my chair, taking a look to see if Stradlater was around.
J D Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye (Bloom's Guides)
He hated Stradlater's guts and he never came in the room if Stradlater was around. He hated everybody's guts, damn near. He came down off the shower ledge and came in the room. He always said it like he was terrifically bored or terrifically tired. He didn't want you to think he was visiting you or anything. He wanted you to think he'd come in by mistake, for God's sake. With a guy like Ackley, if you looked up from your book you were a goner.
You were a goner anyway, but not as quick if you didn't look up right away. He started walking around the room, very slow and all, the way he always did, picking up your personal stuff off your desk and chiffonier. He always picked up your personal stuff and looked at it.
Boy, could he get on your nerves sometimes. He just wanted me to quit reading and enjoying myself. He didn't give a damn about the fencing. Without looking up, though. He always made you say everything twice. I sneaked a look to see what he was fiddling around with on my chiffonier. He must've picked up that goddam picture and looked at it at least five thousand times since I got it.
He always put it back in the wrong place, too, when he was finished. He did it on purpose. You could tell. Ya lost them, ya mean? I had to keep getting up to look at a goddam map on the wall.
Not him, though. How 'bout sitting down or something, Ackley kid? You're right in my goddam light. It drove him mad when I called him "Ackley kid.
He was exactly the kind of a guy that wouldn't get out of your light when you asked him to. He'd do it, finally, but it took him a lot longer if you asked him to. He didn't get It, though.
He started walking around the room again, picking up all my personal stuff, and Stradlater's. Finally, I put my book down on the floor. You couldn't read anything with a guy like Ackley around. It was impossible. I slid way the hell down in my chair and watched old Ackley making himself at home.
I was feeling sort of tired from the trip to New York and all, and I started yawning. Then I started horsing around a little bit. Sometimes I horse around quite a lot, just to keep from getting bored. What I did was, I pulled the old peak of my hunting hat around to the front, then pulled it way down over my eyes.
That way, I couldn't see a goddam thing. I swear to God," Ackley said. I kept saying, "Mother darling, why won't you give me your hand? That stuff gives me a bang sometimes.
Besides, I know it annoyed hell out of old Ackley. He always brought out the old sadist in me. I was pretty sadistic with him quite often. Finally, I quit, though. I pulled the peak around to the back again, and relaxed. He was holding my roommate's knee supporter up to show me. That guy Ackley'd pick up anything. He'd even pick up your jock strap or something. I told him it was Stradlater's. So he chucked it on Stradlater's bed. He got it off Stradlater's chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed.
He came over and sat down on the arm of Stradlater's chair. He never sat down in a chair. Just always on the arm. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny, in a way. His teeth were always mossy-looking, and his ears were always dirty as hell, but he was always cleaning his fingernails. I guess he thought that made him a very neat guy.
He took another look at my hat while he was cleaning them. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it.
He's got a date. I was yawning all over the place. For one thing, the room was too damn hot. It made you sleepy. At Pencey, you either froze to death or died of the heat. Lend me your scissors a second, willya? Ya got 'em handy? I packed them already. They're way in the top of the closet. I got them for him though. I nearly got killed doing it, too. The second I opened the closet door, Stradlater's tennis racket— in its wooden press and all-fell right on my head.
It made a big clunk, and it hurt like hell. It damn near killed old Ackley, though. He started laughing in this very high falsetto voice. He kept laughing the whole time I was taking down my suitcase and getting the scissors out for him.
Something like that— a guy getting hit on the head with a rock or something-tickled the pants off Ackley. I'll get you on the goddam radio.
I don't feel like walking on your crumby nails in my bare feet tonight. What lousy manners. I mean it. He was always keeping tabs on who Stradlater was dating, even though he hated Stradlater's guts. Boy, I can't stand that sonuvabitch. He's one sonuvabitch I really can't stand. He told me he thinks you're a goddam prince," I said. I call people a "prince" quite often when I'm horsing around.
It keeps me from getting bored or something. You'd think he-" "Do you mind cutting your nails over the table, hey? He thinks he is. He thinks he's about the most-" "Ackley! For Chrissake. Willya please cut your crumby nails over the table? I've asked you fifty times. The only way he ever did anything was if you yelled at him. I watched him for a while. Then I said, "The reason you're sore at Stradlater is because he said that stuff about brushing your teeth once in a while.
He didn't mean to insult you, for cryin' out loud. He didn't say it right or anything, but he didn't mean anything insulting.
All he meant was you'd look better and feel better if you sort of brushed your teeth once in a while. Don't gimme that. I've seen you, and you don't," I said. I didn't say it nasty, though. I felt sort of sorry for him, in a way. I mean it isn't too nice, naturally, if somebody tells you you don't brush your teeth. He's a conceited sonuvabitch. He really is," I said.
Suppose, for instance, Stradlater was wearing a tie or something that you liked. Say he had a tie on that you liked a helluva lot—I'm just giving you an example, now. You know what he'd do? He'd probably take it off and give it ta you. He really would. Or-you know what he'd do? He'd leave it on your bed or something. But he'd give you the goddam tie. Most guys would probably just— " "Hell," Ackley said. If you had his dough, you'd be one of the biggest—" "Stop calling me 'Ackley kid,' God damn it.
I'm old enough to be your lousy father. He never missed a chance to let you know you were sixteen and he was eighteen. He was always in a big hurry. Everything was a very big deal. He came over to me and gave me these two playful as hell slaps on both cheeks— which is something that can be very annoying. I might. What the hell's it doing out-snowing?
If you're not going out anyplace special, how 'bout lending me your hound's-tooth jacket? We're leaving," Stradlater said. I spilled some crap all over my gray flannel.
We were practically the same heighth, but he weighed about twice as much as I did. He had these very broad shoulders. He was at least a pretty friendly guy, Stradlater.
It was partly a phony baloney kind of friendly, but at least he always said hello to Ackley and all. Ackley just sort of grunted when he said "How'sa boy? Then he said to me, "I think I'll get going. See ya later. He never exactly broke your heart when he went back to his own room.
Old Stradlater started taking off his coat and tie and all. He had a pretty heavy beard. He really did. No shirt on or anything. He always walked around in his bare torso because he thought he had a damn good build. He did, too.
I have to admit it. We were the only ones in the can, because everybody was still down at the game. It was hot as hell and the windows were all steamy. There were about ten washbowls, all right against the wall. Stradlater had the middle one. I sat down on the one right next to him and started turning the cold water on and off-this nervous habit I have.
Stradlater kept whistling 'Song of India" while he shaved. He had one of those very piercing whistles that are practically never in tune, and he always picked out some song that's hard to whistle even if you're a good whistler, like "Song of India" or "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue. You remember I said before that Ackley was a slob in his personal habits? Well, so was Stradlater, but in a different way. Stradlater was more of a secret slob.
He always looked all right, Stradlater, but for instance, you should' ve seen the razor he shaved himself with. It was always rusty as hell and full of lather and hairs and crap. He never cleaned it or anything. He always looked good when he was finished fixing himself up, but he was a secret slob anyway, if you knew him the way I did. The reason he fixed himself up to look good was because he was madly in love with himself.
He thought he was the handsomest guy in the Western Hemisphere. He was pretty handsome, too—I'll admit it. But he was mostly the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his picture in your Year Book, they'd right away say, "Who's this boy? I knew a lot of guys at Pencey I thought were a lot handsomer than Stradlater, but they wouldn't look handsome if you saw their pictures in the Year Book.
They'd look like they had big noses or their ears stuck out. I've had that experience frequently. Anyway, I was sitting on the washbowl next to where Stradlater was shaving, sort of turning the water on and off.
I still had my red hunting hat on, with the peak around to the back and all. I really got a bang out of that hat. Not too enthusiastic. He was always asking you to do him a big favor. You take a very handsome guy, or a guy that thinks he's a real hot-shot, and they're always asking you to do them a big favor.
Just because they're crazy about themseif, they think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just dying to do them a favor. It's sort of funny, in a way. I might not. I'll be up the creek if I don't get the goddam thing in by Monday, the reason I ask. How 'bout it? It really was. The thing is, though, I'll be up the creek if I don't get it in. Be a buddy.
Be a buddyroo. Suspense is good for some bastards like Stradlater. Anything descriptive. A room. Or a house. Or something you once lived in or something— you know. Just as long as it's descriptive as hell. Which is something that gives me a royal pain in the ass. I mean if somebody yawns right while they're asking you to do them a goddam favor.
So I mean don't stick all the commas and stuff in the right place. He comes from a rather wealthy family, yet still suffers from the loss of his younger brother Allie, who died of leukaemia when he was eleven Holden was thirteen at that stage. The first night that he is back in New York, he takes up the offer of taking a prostitute. Yet when she comes he finds he is not in the mood and would rather talk than have sex, and so keeps his virginity. She is not very much into talking, and leaves soonafter he tell her he doesn't want sex yet he still pays the arranged price of five dollars, just for wasting her time.
The next morning he meets Sally Hayes, an old girl friend, takes her ice skating, and upon telling her he is fed up with the hypocrisy he feels all around, he asks her to run away with him.
Unfortunately for him, she refuses. They fight, and he leaves her. After getting drunk, and paying a visit to Central Park, to remind him of old days, he decides to go home and sneak in so he can see his Sister Phoebe. Yet Phoebe is troubled by his negative attitude, and challenges him to name one thing he would like to be. He at first has problems thinking of anything at all, but what he finally comes up with, is that he would like to be the one catching saving the kids that are playing in the rye, and running towards a cliff, and don't even know it… The Catcher in the Rye.
Which is what shows you that he longs to preserve innocence he wants to stop the kids before they…"grow up". Leaving his parent's apartment, he stays with Mr. Antonlini, his former English teacher, whose homosexual advances frighten Holden, and make him leave really fast.
But suddenly filled with love for her and the world, he knows he cannot leave. After going home, Holden has a nervous breakdown, but recovers to tell in his own way his story of these two dramatic days and of the experiences and feelings that lie behind them.
At the end we have the timeshift into the present, when he is sitting in a sanatorium, and telling his story. Main Characters Holden Caulfield: He is the first person narrator and the hero of this book. He's a lonely, compassionate and a very dreamy year old boy, who lives in a world of his own.
He is "plagued" by the phoniness of his moral environment. Stradlater: Holden's roommate. A tall, sporty guy who seems to be very attractive for girls, yet he doesn't really care about other people too much that is, because he seems to be too concerned about himself. Ackley: A "phony" guy, "seasoned" with pimples and liked by nobody.
He lives next door to Holden and comes over whenever Stradlater is not around as he can't stand him. Holden lik es her above anybody else and really longs to see her. She also likes Holden very much, but is very concerned about him, because of the trouble he gets himself into.Antolini, his favorite English teacher, now a New York University professor. I was just amusing myself. For a buck. To begin with, Mercutio assigns the role of lover to Romeo I. He came down off the shower ledge and came in the room.